


Even Their Pleasures Are Uneasy

by Tamburlaine_the_great



Category: The Tourist (2010)
Genre: F/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Canon, Regrets, Second Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:20:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24427150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamburlaine_the_great/pseuds/Tamburlaine_the_great
Summary: Acheson made a note. He did not ask if she was sure – Elise had been a police officer for years before her enforced retirement, and he trusted her instincts in this.
Relationships: Alexander Pearce/Elise Clifton-Ward (mentioned), Elise Clifton-Ward/John Acheson (past)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Even Their Pleasures Are Uneasy

He was startled awake by the sound of his phone ringing. He glanced at the time as he reached out to silence it: four minutes past two. The number was unfamiliar: in fact, was not a UK number at all.

“Acheson,” he said, brusquely.

“John. I don’t have much time.”

He recognized the voice immediately, even with the distortion caused by mobile telephony and distance, and, despite himself, his body reacted. “Go on,” he said, reaching out for the notebook and pencil which were on the bedside table, and already feeling much more awake.

“Are you still interested in Alexander Pearce?”

“Officially: no.” He paused, and added, “Unofficially and personally: _yes_ , very much so.”

“I thought so.” She sounded relieved. “We’re in New York. Just arrived. I’m pretty sure it’s not for pleasure." There was a pause, before she said, more quietly, "Money laundering.”

Acheson made a note. He did not ask if she was sure – Elise had been a police officer for years before her enforced retirement, and he trusted her instincts in this. “Any idea for whom?”

“Russian Mafiya, I think.” She paused, and added, “I really thought he was going to get out of it. Crime, I mean. Live off the proceeds. But I don’t think he can. He needs this.”

He wondered why she was considering betraying Pearce, when previously she had been inconveniently loyal. Was she getting a sudden attack of conscience? “Are you safe?” he asked, concerned, despite himself.

“For now, yes. I’m calling from a burner phone, so don’t call this number. I’ll try to get in touch some better way. We’re at a serviced apartment building, not a hotel.”

“Not bugged, is it?” he asked, lightly, hoping she’d been at least professional enough to check.

“I’m not there right now. I’ll check when we get back.” There was a noise in the background, and loud, possibly drunken voices, and suddenly it was hard to hear her. “I’ll have to go. I’ll call you again.” She ended the call then, and he had no chance to tell her to take care. Though that was redundant, surely, he thought. He made some more notes, so that he’d be certain to remember the details, though the likelihood of him having to brief his boss was low. Extradition of a USA national – for that was what Pearce was now, apparently, this maths teacher from Wisconsin – was not going to be easy, and it might be preferable, if he was laundering money in the States, to hand this all over to the NYPD or the FBI. He made another note to check which of these bodies would be responsible for investigating.

Acheson put down the phone and notepad, and stared at the wall, deliberately remembering the disastrous operation that had been their attempt to arrest Pearce in Venice. How had Pearce moved, spoken, looked at Elise? He was aware that even she had failed to recognize her lover, so Pearce was evidently one of those rare men who did not just trust to altered looks to change his appearance. He wondered if anything in the man was genuine apart from his love for her. Maybe even _that_ was an act.

“Ha, don’t delude yourself,” he said aloud, bitterly. Feeling still awake, he slid out from beneath the duvet and wandered into the kitchen. It was still raining and his flat was chilly. He poured a glass of water. Memory conjured up her ghost, remnant of the few times, during their fantastically ill-judged affair, that she had visited his flat. He sighed. That was why departmental guidelines advised against workplace romances: they inevitably ended badly and you had to endure the spectacle of one of your most competent colleagues falling for the man she’d been supposed to investigate. Undercover work wasn’t suited for everyone, and Elise, evidently, hadn’t been able to keep sufficiently detached. He wasn’t very good at it himself, so he didn’t entirely blame her, even if he _had_ blamed her for not telling him sooner.

He looked out over the sodium lit city with its brown sky. Rain lashed against the window. It was a far cry from sun-drenched Venice, when he had last seen her. Seen them both.

He yawned, drank down the rest of the water and went back to his lonely bed to sleep the rest of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Written partly because I'm unconvinced by Alexander's reformation, partly because I can't believe the Met would be still uninterested in prosecution, despite recovery of the money. I also think it's fairly obvious that one of the reasons Acheson is so steadfast in his determination to bring down Pearce is a prior relationship with Elise.


End file.
